The Damned

England, 1533. Three hundred years ago, Isabel Devereux was a girl who dreamt of death. Now, Isabel is death itself.

To Thomas Sutton, Isabel is both saviour and demon, lover and torturer, holding his life in her hands. To Thomas, she will reveal her story, a haunting tale of family greed and ambition, of love and loyalty amongst the most powerful, and most corrupt, of nobles. The beautiful vampiress harbours terrible blood-stained secrets and a tragic tale of thwarted love, of a heart given and a heart betrayed by those who should have protected her. But when death came for Isabel three hundred years ago, he took the form of a golden-haired man who gifted her with eternity - and an unquenchable thirst for blood. Thomas will be heir to it all, if he chooses. But first he must face her demons and his own. He must hear the story of Isabel and Conor, star-crossed lovers who seem fated to destroy one another.

Exploring the dichotomy between fate and self-fulfilling prophecy, Forged in Blood is dark, sensuous and shocking. Here are vampires and monsters, demons and innocents, men and women caught up in death and destruction, blood and savagery, cruelty and love.
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Isabel dreamed that her father was dead, and she woke with a
scream. It had been the same dream again. The sky was dark, the
woods black and frozen, as Isabel watched her father run. She saw
roots tangle around his feet as he passed, snaking towards him
across the ground as they tried to catch him and crush him. The
frigid branches whipped his face, leaving thin stripes of blood
across his cheeks, as though a woman's nails had gouged his
flesh. He fought his way through blindly, undisguised panic in
his eyes. She stood so close beside him that she could hear his
laboured breathing. Their shoulders touched, and she felt the
heat of his skin against her own. But she was invisible,
spectral, not really moving at all, only floating.
Mercy, he half-sobbed, as if he could sense her beside
him. Mercy, mercy.

From behind, a cry to curdle the blood, female voices, more
banshee than siren. Her father glanced back over his shoulder,
wide-eyed with fear, and she turned with him, as if they were one
being, both animated by his thoughts. Together, Isabel and her
father sighted them. Together, they recoiled in terror. Two women
chased them, running like wolves, with an animal grace and
economy of motion. Their mouths were red slices across their pale
visages, and blood dripped from their mouths, burning holes in
the snow where it fell. Every stride brought them closer.
Isabel's father tried to run faster. The muscles in his neck
bulged, as every part of him pushed harder, but his legs seemed
to falter, slow. He trembled, gasped, stumbled.

The women fell on him, so close that Isabel could smell the hot
breath of the sirens, a stink of brimstone and corruption. Their
slender arms ensnared him, and they cradled him tenderly as their
pointed teeth began to tear at his flesh. He made a wet choking
sound, thrashed, but the iron embrace of the two pale women held
him immobile. The elder woman laughed as she tore out his heart.
He shuddered. He lay still.

Two blonde-haired heads turned to Isabel. Two pairs of blue eyes
stared at her. Ayleth and her mother smiled.

But it was naught but a dream, something which should not be
dwelled upon, not now, when she had been summoned. She could not
let her mistress see her dishevelled and soaked with sweat. Yet
the memory of the blood dripping from the mouths of the creatures
made her shiver.

All of her dreams had been the same of late, each more hideous,
more graphic, than the one before. The night before she had
dreamt her father dead, too, a letter written in blood clenched
in his cold fist. Her mother had knelt beside him, her great blue
eyes filled with tears of blood, her hands dripping scarlet drops
across his bloodless face. "This was never what I wanted," her
mother had whispered, as she placed a kiss on dead lips which
could never again answer her. "But you gave me no other choice,
my heart."

The dream had receded by the time a servant brought her water.
She scrubbed the sweat and sleep from her body as she hurriedly
donned her clothes, for she would not leave Lady Linota waiting
on her. Apprehension tightened her stomach, for she could not
imagine such an urgent summons heralding anything good. Her face
would be pale, her lips trembling, belying her nervousness, but
she must always appear composed, for she was a Devereux.

She took care to choose a gown which would lend colour to her
cheeks, and beautiful rings which would detract from the
trembling of her hands. She donned a dress of red velvet, and
arranged her long hair so that it fell in rich, glossy curls
across her shoulders. Last of all, she slipped the bracelet her
father had given to her the last time she had seen him around her
thin wrist, as if to do so would conjure his indomitable courage
inside of her.

Outside her door, Linota's steward waited to escort her to her
mistress. Isabel fell in beside him, his footsteps sounding in
her ears like a death knell as they walked.

Linota waited for her on her carved throne. Her eyes were
pitying, though behind her sadness Isabel thought she glimpsed
something darker than grief. Ambition, perhaps. Glee. She turned
a letter over and over in her hands, though she set it aside as
she sighted Isabel. Her rooms, which usually rang with the voices
of the other girls, were ominously quiet, everybody else still
abed at such an early hour. Will was beside her, his eyes red and
puffy. Isabel curtsied to them automatically.

The noblewoman opened her arms to her, gesturing for Isabel to
stand beside her. She approached her mistress' chair warily, a
knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach. She didn't know
what Linota was about to tell her, but she knew that it was bad,
and she didn't want to hear it. "Such beauty…" her mistress
murmured, rising to her feet, her fingers sliding through
Isabel's silken curls. "Such a lovely face should never appear
unhappy." The noblewoman pulled her into her embrace, her kind
eyes filling with tears as she kissed the top of Isabel's head,
resting her cheek on her warm curls. "I'm so sorry, my darling…
It's your father." Her voice choked, and Isabel drew away from
her.

"Is he hurt?" She was terrified suddenly. She wanted to clamp her
hands over her ears, blocking out what Linota was about to say.
She could see the truth in the noblewoman's eyes - she could see
death - yet she could not truly fathom the loss of her father.
She didn't want to believe the small voice in her head, a
harbinger of doom.

"He's dead," Will choked, his voice catching on the words, his
face anguished.

There was silence in the moment after he spoke, in the brief
seconds between the knowledge of death and the onset of grief.

Will took a step towards Isabel, wanting to comfort her, breaking
the beautiful interlude where the world had frozen.
Claustrophobia caught her in its cruel clutches, and she had to
break free of them both, for their pity was suffocating. No one
could make it better. Didn't they understand that? The only way
to fix things was to take it all back. It wasn't allowed to be
true.

Isabel ran from the room, her heart pounding as she pushed
herself, faster and faster. Her feet beat a rapid staccato rhythm
on the floor. Tears blurred her eyes, so that she couldn't see
where she was going. She ran blindly, not caring where she was
headed. She wanted to make herself so exhausted that she couldn't
remember her own name, so that her mind would go blank and what
they had told her would disappear from her memory. She craved the
gentle embrace of sleep - the black oblivion. He's dead, he's
dead, he's dead, went round and round in her head, in time
to the rhythm of her pounding heart. She ran until she couldn't
run anymore.

Isabel was at the stables. She dragged herself inside, legs
trembling. Walking into an empty stall, she collapsed on a bed of
hay, curling up in a ball. Everything hurt, yet she felt nothing
- the pain was like an echo, or a distant half-remembered dream.
A sick feeling rose in her stomach, and she vomited, the
sensation making her throat burn. She wrapped her arms tightly
around her body, hoping that if she could make herself small
enough she would disappear, so that nothing could hurt her
anymore.

She knew that she was dead too. Dying. Soon enough she would join
her father. She would die, and the thought no longer seemed so
terrible to her. She could do it now. She could fling herself
from a window, put an end to her grief, spare herself the horrors
she knew she would suffer. Her body would lie on the stones,
broken and innocent, untouched by the man who would be her
husband. She could be the queen of death, not somebody's victim.

Minutes passed. Hours. A shrill whinny pierced the air, and
Isabel heard someone frantically trying to soothe a frightened
animal. She peered out from underneath her arm. A massive black
horse reared up in front of her, its rock hard hooves crashing to
the floor just inches from her face. The beast's dark eyes rolled
in its head. He could kill her. She could kill herself, throw
herself under his hooves. But she didn't move. Not even death
could take such pain away.

Isabel wasn't scared, because nothing could hurt her more than
she was already hurting. And she knew that she wouldn't die. It
wasn't time. Not yet. She felt detached as she watched the events
unfolding before her. A tall figure hung onto the end of the
horse's rope, though it seemed small and slight beside the
animal's might. It was the elfin boy. She closed her eyes again,
turning her head away, disinterested.

Managing to calm the stallion, the boy tied him up outside. His
face was thunderous as he stormed into the stable, standing in
front of her with his hands on his hips. "What the hell do you
think you're playing at?"

Isabel just looked at him, marvelling at the fact that the world
hadn't come to a standstill. Didn't he know what had happened?

"Have you got a death wish?"

The mention of death stabbed at her heart like a knife. She could
hear a strange moaning sound, though she didn't know where it was
coming from. With a jolt of surprise, she realised that it was
her.

Seeing her tears, the anger left the boy's face and his manner
became awkward. He was long and gangly, coltish. His body was
still too big for him. He rubbed nervously at the backs of his
arms, unsure of how to react. "My lady?"

Isabel couldn't say the words, for speaking them aloud would make
it real. Closing her eyes, she tried to block everything out,
hoping that the misery which haunted her would be unable to find
her in the darkness. "It hurts," she whimpered.

His face softened, almost gentle now, as if he understood the
truth she couldn't voice. "I know," he whispered.

The boy's footsteps were quiet as he approached. The straw
rustled as he sat down beside her. Wordlessly, he pulled her
upright. Putting a slender arm around Isabel's shoulders, he drew
her close to him. "I know," he whispered again. His fingers were
soft as he gently stroked her cheek, his delicacy surprising. She
stared at his lovely face, wondering how she had ever thought it
cruel. His lips were as soft and red as a kiss, and his eyes were
full of the sweetest sympathy.

She had resented the touch of those she loved only moments
before, but his she welcomed, his calm reserve comforting her. An
aura of tranquillity seemed to emanate from him, gentling the
fierce sadness which assailed her. In his arms, the world seemed
simpler. They didn't speak again. His hands caressed her hair,
the action soothing and rhythmic. He rocked her gently back and
forth, as one would a baby. Isabel gave herself to the darkness,
to him. She let him see the rotten, oozing grief inside. Her
tears dampened his clothes as she cried into his shoulder, until,
exhausted, she closed her eyes, and let herself pretend that her
father's death was naught but a terrible dream.